


Out of the Red

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hell, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam carries hell in his touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Red

1.

“God, what an asshole,” Beth groans, sliding into the booth across from Liz. Liz gives a knowing shrug and continues to roll her silverware.

“Told you. He always comes in with his father-in-law. Even yells at him if he takes too long to order.”

“Why would you go out to eat every week with someone you clearly don’t want to spend time with?”

Liz shrugs again. “I don’t know. Wife makes him? Gives him some father-in-law bonding time?”

“Then why doesn’t she come?”

“You think I stop to ask? I just get his drinks and food. Then run. If I don’t, he yells at me for not bringing enough crackers for his clam chowder.”

Beth sighs and toys with a napkin. “You’re cut, I’m guessing?”

“Yep,” Liz says, adding another set of silverware to the pile. “I finish up here and I’m out.”

“Lucky,” Beth groans. “I probably won’t be able to leave for at least another couple hours.”

Liz just smiles at her before she looks toward the door. “I don’t know, you may be the lucky one. Look.”

Beth turns around to see a tall, attractive man—late twenties, looks like—walk in the diner slowly. His eyes scan the dining room, shoulders hunched up around his ears. His face is pale and he keeps licking his lips.

“You think you’re being funny, don’t you?” Beth says. “He looks so skittish that he’d run away if I got within two feet of him.” She frowns and stands up, grabbing a napkin to use as a coaster. “Fine. But if he cries when I bring him something to drink, I’m blaming you.”

Liz gives her a little kick. “Would you just seat him already?”

Beth’s right, the guy looks awfully skittish. He crosses his arms, looking like he wants to disappear. He watches as Beth approaches him, eyes attending to her every step. He tries to smile when Beth hands him a menu, but it’s weak, miserable. He slides into the booth that Beth indicates and tries to smile again. Drumming his hands against the tabletop, he takes a deep breath. It’s as if he’s steeling himself for battle.

When Beth leaves to get his drink, Liz watches as the guy ignores the menu in favor of pulling his phone out of his pocket. His fingers dance across the keypad before he simply sets it down on the table, biting his lip.

 _Just call,_ Liz thinks, but he just continues to stare at the phone, working his jaw. Sweat runs down the side of his face and he wipes it away with his sleeve. He puts his face in his hands.

“Not very subtle, is he?” Beth asks as she walks by with her tray. “Sweet, though. Name’s Sam. Let’s see if I can’t get him to open up, shall we?” She winks and gives a little sashay as she walks away.

Liz shakes her head and smiles. Guy does look like he needs a friendly face.

His face is still in his hands when Beth sets his drink on the table, and he doesn’t seem to have heard her arrive. She reaches out and taps his wrist.

Liz’ silverware flies off the table as Beth shrieks and jumps back, eyes wide and chest heaving. The man—Sam—is now ghostly white, and he pulls himself out of the booth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he hurries. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—“

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Beth screams. “You—you—“ she gestures toward his wrist.

Sam tugs his jacket down, covering down to his hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Are you all right? Can I see—“

Beth shakes her head widely and backs away. “No. No, don’t touch me.”

Customers in nearby tables stare, some with forks halfway to their mouths. A baby starts shrieking in the corner but nobody pays him mind.

Sam hunches his shoulders back in, eyes downcast and mouth turned down in a frown. “I’m just gonna,” he mutters, grabbing his phone and swallowing the rest of his sentence. He hesitates when he walks by Beth, looking like he wants to say something, but when Beth skitters away, tears streaming down her face, he simply nods and continues on.

Nobody stops him.

Guests immediately start asking for checks, murmuring to themselves. Gina, the manager, is busy interrogating Beth, and when Liz turns to look out in the parking lot, Sam is long gone.

“I’m sorry,” Beth is saying when Liz starts paying attention. “But there was something fucked up with him, Gina, really. I touched him and, I don’t know. I saw things.”

Gina looks at Beth as if she’s wondering why Sam is being accused as the one with the problem. “You can’t scare customers like that, Elizabeth,” she hisses quietly. “We’re struggling as is, we need what we can get!”

“ _I_ can’t scare customers like that?” Beth grits her teeth, ignoring the tears. She holds up her hand; it’s screaming red. “How about we bring him back inside and _you_ can see this time, hmm? No. There was—“ she shivers. “I have to go. Please. I’ll—later.”

Gina lets her go, is maybe even grateful to get her out of the place.

There’s frost on the windows.

2.

His hands shake on the steering wheel.

[ You’ve forgotten what spoken language sounds like. You scream words into the fire but they echo back, bouncing across your burning flesh. They whisper, reminding you where you are, where you will always be. ]

and now that waitress saw it. She touched him and she saw it. He fumbles for his phone in his pocket and stares at the screen, pulling up his most recent calls. Not sure why, as it’s no surprise. Dean. Bobby. Dean. Dean.

Hits a button. _Call D_ flashes on the screen. Dean. Is Dean here? Demons lie except when the truth hurts more but _what about angels do angels lie where is Dean-Dean’s not here anymore you lying bastard he can’t be_. 

Sam bites his lip and tosses the phone on the passenger seat of the Buick he lifted. He can’t call because if it just rings and rings then he doesn’t want to believe that Dean is _there_ , that Sam has left him behind, he can’t think that he can’t go through that again he can’t. 

He has to go. Just to see. Once he sees Dean ( _Dean’s there, he is, you’ll see_ ) he’ll know what to do. Dean always knows what to do, except when he doesn’t. _You didn’t let me down. You almost did. But you didn’t._ Yes, he remembers that. Dean. His brother, Dean.

When he gets to Lisa’s street, the first thing he sees is balloons tied to a mailbox a few doors down. Kids run around in a sugar high, and one boy finds a hose and turns it loose. Ben. A birthday? He doesn’t think Dean ever had balloons. Sam never had balloons. But he’s pretty sure that’s what they’re for.

Sam sits up straight in his seat and looks closer. He sees some parents walking around, but Ben’s at the age where he doesn’t need to his own there to supervise. Knowing Dean, though, because Dean is there, he is…

Sam realizes how he must look, parked on the street and watching kids play at a birthday party, so he pulls up past Lisa’s house and turns around. Sure enough, Dean comes out in pretense of getting the mail, but his eyes scan over the kids at the body. Always alert. Sam smiles and for a moment he thinks he’s going to scream out of pure relief that it’s Dean, Dean’s here, he was always here _you’re a liar you fucking son of a bitch_. He may have had his memory of Dad and Jess and Bobby’s faces stripped from him but not Dean’s, never Dean. He looks his fill: some things will never change. Good. Keep looking, Dean. Never stop looking.

However, to his surprise, Dean looks thinner, despite getting what Sam would imagine as home cooking. _No more eating burgers for every meal, though._ He looks tired. Beaten down. He flips through his mail, frowning with each piece. Bills, no doubt. Sam used to have bills, in another lifetime that was in another lifetime.

Lisa comes out and touches Dean’s elbow, bringing him out of his daze. She says something that makes him laugh, and when he looks at her, his eyes soften. She pats his cheek and beckons to the house.

_Ben will be fine._

When they disappear in the house, Sam swallows and drives away.

2.

Sam drives.

North, he goes north. There’s a destination, he knows, he knows he has to go somewhere. Autopilot. He’ll get there, he always does, and things will get better.

There’s a light. He blinks, looks down. Oh, right. The car needs gas.

[ fire, it leads to fire, feel it? ]

A station. Gas prices have risen, haven’t they? Sam laughs, almost giggles, what a thought, how pathetic. Easy, no problem. Pull in. Use the card in your pocket, hope it’s not expired. Don’t even have to talk to anyone, nope.

He has a wallet— _they took everything but this, can’t use money down there, right?_ —but no cash. Good. He can stay right at the pump.

Which button? Something. There are a lot of buttons. _You’ve done this before, idiot._ Okay, there we go. Card in, gas pumping. The wallet drops to the ground, he doesn’t need it right now.

He’s thirsty. There’s water inside, he knows that. He should get some. Soda, maybe. He thinks he likes soda. Dean likes soda. He should get some for Dean. No. Beer instead. Dean likes beer. Dean likes whiskey, but this station doesn’t seem to have whiskey, probably not.

Sam starts to get in the car after it stops pumping, tank is full, tank is ready to go—drive, let’s drive some more, should almost be there, wherever _there_ is—when he hears footsteps.

“Sir, you forgot your wallet—“

A hand. A hand on his shoulder. He spins around. Fingertips graze his neck, his skin—careful there are sparks, _don’t touch_ —but there is touch anyway, it’s too late.

There’s a blast of heat on his face and a scream in his ear. Someone’s hurt, just a pyre of bones swallowed up by flames, turning to charred coal. That smell, the smell unique to burning, it’s back and he takes comfort, this he knows.

_And you do too, now. Sorry. It never gets better. Wasn’t worth the wallet, was it?_

Sam blinks. His eyes burn but that’s all right. The station is lit up in flames—did he do that? Oh. He should probably go. He turns to get back in the car—not Dean’s car—and he kicks something, a body, it’s a body, on the ground.

His wallet remains unsinged in the man’s grip.

3.

The car takes him to Bobby’s house. Not sure why, Bobby’s dead, dead by his hand. Lucifer’s hand. Same thing, or is it? Doesn’t matter. Bobby has books and contacts and notes, all things he can use.

Yet somehow, he’s not surprised to see Bobby changing a tire on the truck. Good thing Bobby hasn’t moved while he’s been gone. Bobby won’t leave, he always stays the same, good ole Bobby. Same old cars and same old shutters and same old dog. Same old hat, same old beard, too. It’s grayer now though. 

The holy water to the face isn’t so new, either.

“Well hell, if this isn’t déjà vu, I don’t know what is,” Bobby sighs. He smiles. “Not complaining one bit.”

Sam backs away when Bobby reaches out—nope, he’s learned now, probably not a good idea, sir.

Bobby looks confused. “What?”

Sam shakes his head. “I wouldn’t touch me. I made someone cry and scared the fuck out of everybody in a diner and blew up a gas station.”

Bobby’s eyes are huge. “Run that by me again?”

Sam pulls his hands out of his pockets. Flesh looks normal. No red. No scorch marks. But it’s not normal. It’s not fine. He can still feel it itching under the skin.

Bobby sighs. Probably expected an answer, should have answered him. But he has none to give. “Where the hell’s Dean? You’ve told him you’re here, right?”

“No. We leave Dean out of it.”

Bobby sighs. “Kid, we can’t keep him from this. How would you feel if Dean was alive and didn’t tell you? Kept himself out of your life?”

[ do you hope that he’s up there without you and he’s laughing and happy?

yesyesyes, he promised, he promised

don’t worry, he’s well taken care of, i can assure you of that. i’m sorry to tell you that is not by someone you would want but he does have very pretty bones, they’re quite useful down here ]

But it’s okay because Dean and his bones are up here. Safe. Protected by muscle and flesh and that will never change as long as Sam is around, no matter what.

Life with no Dean is like life in the cage. But this is the only time in their life that they can make a clean split. Closure.

“You outta your mind, boy? Closure? You think Dean believing that you’re still in Hell every day and night is closure? You think that if you do whatever it is you’re going to do, that you’ll find closure? That’s such a crock of shit. If you don’t call him, I will.”

No. His choice. Not Bobby’s. “My brother. My decision.” Don’t you don’t you dare.

“And your brother doesn’t get a decision in this?”

“It’s been made. He agreed.”

“Things change, Sam. He deserves to know!”

“He deserves that life more.”

Bobby rubs his face. “I don’t think I can agree with you on that, but we can talk about it later.” His eyes soften. “Are you—can you—what happened?”

[ you don’t know, you don’t understand anything ]

Bobby’s smart, and been through this once before (and isn’t that the saddest thing Sam’s ever thought) so Bobby knows when to back down. It’s not complicated, anyway. There was fire. It was unpleasant. 

There’s nothing to tell. 

“How did you get out?” Bobby asks cautiously. He leans in. _Is it just you in there?_

Sure. Who else would it be? Besides Meg. Or Gary. Or Ellicot. Or Lucifer.

He laughs. Whoops. Bobby may have a point. Or he himself may have a point, he doesn’t think Bobby actually said anything. He shakes his head as if to clear it.

“Sorry. What did you ask again?”

Bobby’s forehead creases. He looks troubled. “How did you get out?”

[ there’s no angel to rescue you, not like your brother, not like dean. blink and you’re done, you’re an afterthought, there’s no need for anyone to help you, you’ll be with us for all eternity for the rest of time always ]

Dunno. Dean didn’t know. Maybe he’ll find out later. Maybe he needs to watch someone’s eyes burn from their sockets.

*

Bobby prays. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bobby pray before. He’s clumsy, fumbling over his words, but Sam knows he’s asking for Castiel and that’s all he needs to know.

But there’s nobody. Shouldn’t be. Castiel’s just a heap of particles in the graveyard. Although Bobby’s here. And no one ever stays dead. Not really.

Wherever he is, Castiel’s not answering. Can’t blame him.

Bobby sighs and takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair. "Shit." He looks up. "You hungry?"

No.

"I'll make you a sandwich, and you’re going to eat it. Have you slept at all?"

No. Dean did at first. Slept everywhere, body twisted, as if he hadn’t slept in years. As if he didn’t know how to get comfortable. Sleep would steal him away without a second glance. Slept like he was just a husk of a man, face lax. Peaceful.

Bobby’s on the phone now but it better not be Dean. Sam keeps his hands in his pockets, just in case. Bobby doesn’t have much furniture to spare so it wouldn’t be good to burn it all away but it seems like it’s okay as long as his skin remains covered. 

Sam can sense Bobby watching him as he picks at the sandwich (it tastes like ash, like nothing all the same).

“You were right about the gas station,” Bobby finally says. “It...blowing up and all. Few casualties, but it wasn’t that busy that time of day. Nobody’s looking for you, guess they weren’t paying close enough attention. But you’re okay. The car you swiped looks fine and dandy. You want to explain something to me? What happened right before it blew up?”

“I dropped my wallet.”

“Okay,” Bobby says slowly. “Then what?”

Sam wiggles his fingers out of his pocket. Touches his neck: winces. Nothing. “He tapped me right here.”

“And the place exploded.”

Suppose so.

“It’s all over the news. People panicking at the unknown origin of such an explosion.”

They’re panicking over _that_? It’s almost cute. Like ants with a microscope. Wait. Killing ants using a microscope. Or something.

Maybe it is time to go to sleep.

4.

When he opens his eyes, Castiel is there.

"You’re back."

Sam blinks. "You finally decided to answer Bobby?"

"I didn’t answer him. I answered Dean."

Dean knows, how does Dean know—

“Dean doesn’t know.”

Oh.

Bobby fidgets in the corner of the room. Not a bedroom. Just the couch in Bobby’s living room. Sam doesn’t remember making it there but he must have because _you’re so heavy, dude_ and _fuckin’ Sasquatch_ and Bobby’s not the strongest guy around although now he might be stronger than Dean who’s so skinny.

“You won’t come when Bobby asks, but you will if Dean does?”

Castiel ignores him. “He says something is wrong with you.”

“Didn’t say it like that,” Bobby mumbles, bristling.

“Why are you here if Dean doesn’t know? What did Dean tell you?” He needs something, anything. Just a little bit. Dean.

“Just told him I needed some angelic intervention,” Bobby says. “Asked if he could give Castiel a call and sure enough, bastard flew right in.”

“I imagine Dean’s on his way,” Castiel says. “Our conversation made him a bit suspicious.”

“Ya think?” Bobby asks. He shakes his head. “Good. Between the three of us, we should be able to figure this out.”

Four, there’s four. Four of us. No, three. No Dean. 

Castiel turns to Bobby. “What’s happening?”

“Couldn’t get much out of him,” Bobby says. Sam imagines him spinning his index finger around his temple. “Figured you could sense something, I don’t know.”

Castiel nods as if he understands. 

Oh, this should work. Angels can touch him without combusting, right? They may _cause_ the combustion but Sam can’t hurt an angel on his own so this should be okay.

“On his neck,” Bobby says, and Castiel leans in closer, fingers raised to press where Mr. Wallet touched and

oh it’s different this time, very different

[ there’s hands upon hands with eyes upon eyes moving in every direction, body almost entirely swallowed up by wings and oh, this is why pamela’s eyes burned out of her skull, it’s beautiful and horrible at the same time but you can’t look away

“you want him, do you angel?” there’s no beauty here, only horror, only utter devastation. “no longer is he yours to take, i’ve made him mine.”

“he’s neither mine nor yours, Alastair,” and there are wheels spinning now, the wings fly open to reveal sharp shades of topaz on each spoke. “he belongs to heaven.”

teeth, so much teeth. you’ve never seen a demon in true form before and it’s just as and worse than you imagined. “you sure?” ]

Hands grab his shoulders and tug Sam away, and all he can hear are gasps for air. Sam’s chest is still though, lungs calm. It’s not Bobby either, because he’s too busy using his voice for yelling.

Oh.

“The _fuck_?” Bobby says over and over. Castiel’s against the wall, trench coat gone as if it’s been blasted from his body. There are scorch marks on his lapel.

Castiel’s not strong enough. Sam’s touch is stronger. Sam cracks his knuckles.

It shouldn’t make him smile. But it does.

5.

Sam opens his eyes. The chair across the room has Dean in it. Dean’s hands clutch his knees and he’s clenching his jaw so tightly it looks painful. It’s the look that Dean gets when he’s one second away from losing it and Sam hates that he recognizes it, that he has seen Dean lose it enough times _to_ recognize it.

Sam can't help it. His blood hums, fingers itch. He could see Dean's hell if he wanted to. And he does.

Sam’s wanted to see this one for a long time, ever since he clutched his brother in that motel room ( _what happened to you because you’re so different but still the same I need to know_ ). Ever since Alastair, ever since Dean cried on the side of the road. If Sam could have reached out and learned with one single touch then, he would have, no hesitation.

Dean’s intake of breath reminds Sam that Dean knows him better than anyone 

[ almost anyone

shut up ]

and Dean scoots back in the chair.

[ he doesn’t want you to touch him, see? he doesn’t even want to believe it’s you ]

“It’s me,” Sam says, a little stupidly, because how’s that for a first sentence, it should have been ‘how are you’ or ‘you look well’ ( _lie lie lie_ but this is what you’re supposed to do, see) but it was all he could say.

Dean nods, but he doesn’t speak. Sam imagines his voice is lighter, that it has shed the rough edges and is just Dean underneath.

“I won’t touch you,” Sam offers as he stands up, because he thinks that is what Dean wants to hear. There’s an indescribable look in Dean’s eyes before suddenly he wraps Sam up in a hug, Dean’s hands digging into his back. 

Dean knows. He knows but he’s careful to avoid skin. His chin rests on Sam’s flannel covered shoulder and his hands span across Sam’s flannel covered back.

“You idiot,” Dean mutters. “You self-sacrificing moron.”

Sam hears the _I love you_ all the same.

*

“So what is it?” Dean asks, flipping through one of Bobby’s books. “What the hell would do this?”

“I think that’s your answer,” Bobby mutters. He mutters a lot now.

“We don’t exactly have much experience with people being raised from hell,” Castiel says. He’s sitting next to Dean, as far away from Sam as possible. Sam wants to laugh, maybe wave some fingers in his face.

Dean looks at his own skin with a frown before his eyes drift over to Castiel. “And you weren’t the one to raise him.”

Castiel’s gaze is hard. “No.”

Dean nods as if he decides not to push the point but is logging it away for later. “Could Lucifer still be in there somehow?”

“I believe that is the only logical explanation,” Castiel says, “but I didn’t sense his presence when—” he stops. 

Dean pushes his book away and crosses his arms. “So we’ve got nothing.”

Sam flexes his fingers. “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing.” _You don’t want me to use my powers. Understandable. I won’t need to anymore. Just one touch and no demon would want to come near me._ Well, he’d have to give up sex. No one wants to fuck to the sound of screaming. And perhaps some people like a little pain with pleasure, but this may be a little too much. But he can do that. Maybe even wear those gloves like mimes have. Wasn’t there a movie or something when a psychic had to do that? How fitting. Heh, like the gloves.

Dean’s mouth drops open. “You’re fucking kidding me.” 

Sam shrugs. “What’s the other option?”

Dean stares a little longer, eyes huge in his face. He pulls the book back and opens it again. “Just be quiet,” he mumbles. “Please.”

*

After a few more hours of research to no avail, Castiel leaves with the vague promise of looking around, but Sam knows he just wants out, to get away. Nobody offers any protest.

Bobby retires to his room with a nod, but Sam doesn’t miss his unspoken message to Dean.

_Do something._

Normally one of them takes the bedroom and the other stays on the couch, but Dean doesn’t leave.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

Dean hesitates. Takes a deep breath before he begins to unbutton his shirt to leave him in just his tee. “I get it,” he says. “You don’t think anyone can understand.”

“I know _you_ can. That’s why there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Maybe it’s why we should talk about it,” Dean says. “But if you want. You could show me instead.”

A bubble of laughter spills from Sam’s lips. “You want to see?”

Dean shudders. “Not really. But I think I need to. I think you do, too.”

Relief shouldn’t be the first thing that explodes in Sam’s chest. He wants to see, needs to see. But he doesn’t want Dean to see in return ( _he’ll burn Dean can’t burn no more scars because of Sam no more_ ).

Dean’s mouth quirks in a sad half-smile and he holds out his arm, turning it so his forearm is facing Sam. “It’ll be okay.”

_Dean needs this as much as Sam does._

His skin is strangely soft under Sam’s touch.

[ but pain. painpainpain. hissing and screaming and hoarse threats that are fruitless and will always be so. knives and jeers and _you can do better than that_ s and _i’m going to feed your jaw to the dogs, they’re so fond of the taste_

keep screaming, says Alastair

don’t bother screaming, says Michael

you’re so pretty when you bleed, says Alastair

fire suits you, says Michael

you’ll never leave me and i’m so proud of you, says Alastair

this is your home now, says Michael ]

When Sam lifts his fingers away, Dean’s skin is smooth. Unmarred. Dean’s face has lost all color but his gaze is firm. Makes no move to pull his long-sleeve shirt back on. He manages a weak smile and nods.

They don’t need to say anything.

When they both reach for the orange juice at the same time the next morning and brush fingers, all Sam can feel is Dean.


End file.
